


The Scent of Addiction

by bionically



Series: One Night Stand [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 19:04:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15869832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bionically/pseuds/bionically
Summary: Addiction happened in stages. Unfortunately, it had a tendency to creep up on you without you realizing it. And sometimes, it only takes the once to create the habit. DMHG in 7 parts. Featuring meanie!Hermione & changed!Draco.





	1. Stage 1

**Author's Note:**

> cross posted at FF.net
> 
> This is the edited and latest version.

It happened like this:

 

It was a mixer, with a widely diverse group gathered across multiple sectors to meet and greet with the foreign delegation from the Americas, including both North and South America.

 

At the end of the evening, there was a group of them standing around arguing the recent developments in astronomy that had an implication in their astromancy studies, and what it meant in calculations. It was a fun, heated, scholastic argument, something that Hermione enjoyed a lot. Those present included Daniel Purdey, the writer at the _Prophet_ who reported new wizarding inventions and findings, Lisa Turpin, Hermione's formal classmate who was now an adjunct professor at Hogwarts, Percy Weasley, who always knew about the latest developments in such subjects, a few other Ministry workers, three foreign delegates, as well as Theodore Nott and Draco Malfoy.

 

Hermione supposed she and Lisa naturally gravitated to one another because they had been in several classes together and had gotten to know each other better in recent years. Theo and Draco had also been in the same arithmancy class, and they had come to join in the debate once the argument over Pluto's alignment got loud enough to be heard across the room.

 

Soon the party started to thin out. Usually, Hermione disliked these enforced socializing events, but tonight had been a bit of all right, since she had Percy, who was her colleague in the Interspecies Relations Committee, and after that she had bumped into other people she knew.

 

Somehow it ended up being Lisa, Draco, and her still discussing the issue after everyone else had wandered off. Hermione was surprised to note that Draco was something of an astronomy expert, since he never gave a sign of it in classes back in the day. But now that she considered it, he really fooled them all by goofing around so much in class and still managing no less than six NEWTS.

 

Lisa was hailed by someone across the room who wanted her opinion on the proposed new Hogwarts curriculum and left them. Hermione was still smiling into her drink when the other girl left, though a vague part of her brain wondered why Draco was lingering. They didn't know each other that well.

 

She was still there when he brought up the recent legislation that would lift the ban on several prohibited items. She gathered that was part of the business he had with Theo after the war, when their inherited wealth took a fair blow from the new taxes.

 

And then, “I beg your pardon?” she asked. Surely she had heard wrong.

 

His lips pulled slightly outward at one side in a small show of amusement directed at himself. “You heard, Granger. I asked if you wanted to come home with me.”

 

It was no less shocking the second time around. “Go home with you? As in--?”

 

He leaned in slightly. Not enough to touch her. One hand was wrapped around his glass, the other rested in his trouser pockets. “You know exactly what it means, Granger. We both know you're not an idiot.”

 

She shook her head a bit to dissipate the alcoholic fumes and the high of successful social mingling. “ _Why_ would you want to? Ugh, I can't even think that straight, but I seem to recall you have a problem with me. Or my kind.”

 

“You mean the name-calling in school?” he asked. He was so close that she could see the dark rims surrounding his clear gray irises and the fringe of dark brown eyelashes. She focused a little too hard and almost fell forward. He grabbed her upper arm and pushed her back to an upright position before releasing her.

 

“I mean the name-calling in school,” she said, fanning herself a bit. Had her hair been that woolly all evening or had someone started a fire?

 

“Don't be daft, Granger. Surely you could tell that was just foreplay.” He smiled a bit, almost like a mischievous schoolboy. Except he wasn't. She wasn't either. A school kid, that was. They were adults talking about fairly adult business. She was slightly inebriated though.

 

“Pretty offensive foreplay,” she replied, and frowned to herself. Surely that wasn't the most pressing argument to make there.

 

“I didn't notice it ever bothered you,” he said, quite truthfully, although it was far from being an adequate apology. When she didn't immediately reply, he raised his eyebrows. “Well?”

 

She felt as though she was definitely not sober enough to make such a, what was surely, momentous decision. On the other hand, she would have been blind and deaf and probably smell-less to negate his attractions. Draco Malfoy had always been supremely well-tailored and immaculate, and that included a quite dizzying aroma of pine-scented soap that clung to his natty robes as he swaggered his way through school. Even in the days of Hogwarts, she had to give it up to him that for all his character flaws, general hygiene and a flawless appearance had not been his issues. Tonight, in what was the latest in a series of mixers for the past five years for foreign visitors and businesses, she had not been blind to the way his white shirt stretched across his shoulders and moulded themselves to his upper arms once their robes had been discarded at the door. It was probably beer-ears, but his voice was quite nice as well, low and even, as though he were sharing a secret. He had matured late, given his coltish physique and immature behavior back in the day, but he had definitely matured well. And she had noticed. Given that he had been fairly innocuous and civil as a whole since that time, she probably wasn't the only one who had.

 

“It's not a trick, is it?” she asked, just to be sure.

 

His smile deepened, as though he wanted to say something. Instead, he said seriously, “Not a trick.”

 

She shrugged. “Draco, I may regret this in the morning, but I'm going to go for it. Let's see if you're a natural blond.”

 

For a moment, he didn't say anything. Hermione held her breath. Had he changed his mind? Not that she really cared or anything, but still, this sort of thing required some kind of trust on both sides, and after saying it wasn't a trick, a full-on rejection would probably sting a bit. All he did, though, was set down his glass and reach out a hand to remove hers as well. Then, in an action that was so swift as to be undetected, with that same hand, he apparated them and sent them flying through space and time.

 

She reached out a hand to brace herself when they landed. The only surface available was Draco's chest, before he steadied her with two hands on her waist. She noticed, with surprising clarity, that his chest was warm and hard and very pleasant to touch.

 

“All right?” he asked.

 

Hermione was busy taking deep breaths to combat the effects of apparating on a glass too many of wine. She knew, though, from past experience, that although dizzying, traveling by apparation often eradicated the fuzziness of alcohol. It was as though being pulled through space sucked the alcohol from one's system.

 

“Can I get you a Sober-Up potion?” he offered.

 

“No, I'm fine,” she said, before looking up and around at what was a very snazzy loft.

 

She had a brief image of a surprisingly modern decor before he murmured, “Good,” and lowered his mouth to cover hers.


	2. Stage 2

That didn't really explain what happened next:

 

Hermione could chalk that one time up to hormones and the visual effects of a toned male upper body in a crisp white shirt on top of alcohol. The smell of him was also not to be dismissed. She had read a Muggle study on the effects of perfume as changing the outward appearance of body chemistry to attract people that would not otherwise be attracted to you, and that study seemed suspiciously appropriate in her case. 

 

Several things converged to make her walk of shame less appalling. Draco Malfoy was gone in the morning, with a note propped up on the dining table that something had come up, but that she was free to make herself at home before letting herself out. There was coffee in a top of the market deluxe self-warming cauldron left for her, as well as elfless food-on-call services that he contracted with. All she had to do was tap the food tray once with the fork, and twice when she was finished. Such services had been advertised in all the papers, but Hermione didn't know anyone else who utilized the very pricey food delivery, which was what it amounted to.  Oh, and Granger, leave his dark artifacts collection and Deatheater paraphernalia alone. 

 

That last line had an arrow pointing up underneath, with the word “joking” written in all caps and underlined twice. Hermione had to admit that she initially had raised both eyebrows and gazed suspiciously around before cracking a reluctant smile.

 

It felt wrong to be in this surprisingly light and teak-colored loft in more ways than one. First, she was now completely sober and second, she wasn't completely positive this was his place. It was too out of character, and didn't he still live at the manor? 

 

Luckily, though, she was a wizard and his balcony had apparation access built in, so she hurriedly left, eyes locking onto a strangely evocative abstract watercolor of circles and lines right as she whisked away.

 

Like most other females, though, her mind kept drifting back in a self flagellating review of her own actions. Even though the day was a full working day, in between talking to people and working at her desk, she found images from the night before creeping into her brain to embarrass her. Had she really giggled and squirmed in his embrace, as though he could have been any fanciable bloke in the world and not that one in particular? Had they--? Had it--?

 

Even in her mind, she couldn't quite finish her thoughts, which painted her face bright red even in recollection.

 

It was fine, she told herself. Everyone had indiscretions, she reminded herself. It was alcohol and just that one time, she explained to the part of her brain that was not logical and was screeching at the top of its voice for no reason at all.

 

It continued to be fine when she didn't see any sign of her one night stand anywhere during the week. Also, she might have avoided places that were too public for the first few days, and opted to grab food in Muggle London instead. But she continued not to see him and decided not to dwell on it too much. It was one of those regrettable things that happened, even though he was a damn good lay. But she wasn't going to think about that anymore.

 

So when she emerged from talking with Percy on Magical Malady Awareness Week a week later, she was not at all prepared to bump into someone and not a microsecond later, smell a very familiar scent.

 

“Granger,” said a familiar voice, and the low timbre sent a shiver down her spine by evoking some rather x-rated images.

 

“Er, Malfoy, how are you?” she asked, looking at the file in her hand. If only she had been less competent, the parchments inside would have spilled all over the floor. But she had stacked them up and bound them into the folder and then miniaturized them for easy handling, and now there was nowhere for her to look but at her watchless wrist and then somewhere over his shoulder for an acquaintance to come save her.

 

“How about dinner sometime this week?” he asked somewhere over her head. “I wasn't completely convinced by your argument that the new planetary discoveries changed anything in astrological studies.”

 

Hermione's chin snapped up, and she forgot about their ill-fated night together. “Don't be ridiculous. Of course it changes everything. It means that centuries of divination can be discounted, since they had no idea there were unnamed planets and stars ascending all the time. Given that they scour the night skies for signs, one would think that anything left out due to, well, bad eyesight, would be devastating to a prophecy.”

 

“Rather, couldn't you say that centuries of prophecies have been accurate regardless of any particular positions of any stars or planets, and that gives even more credence to the art of divination?” His lips were twitching but she had no idea what he found so amusing unless it was the idea of divination as a proper subject at Hogwarts when numerology and alchemy were not.

 

“If that's so, then you're saying astromancy and divination would be completely at odds with one another.”

 

“They are anyway,” he said. “But I wouldn't call either one of them more right than the other. They run parallel lines with one another.”

 

“Oh, come on! How can anyone who got a NEWT in advanced astromancy speak up for divination?”

 

“Well, I could tell you more about it, but it'll definitely take dinner,” he said.

 

Hermione stared at him and then glanced around them. The hallway was surprisingly deserted. “Listen, Malfoy, this isn't the place to discuss things, but that would be a hard no.”

 

“Are you sure? I got the impression you weren't adverse to more, er, in-depth discussions from the other night.”

 

Hermione glared, grabbed his wrist,  and pulled him into a storage closet. A light glowed from the tip of her wand, surrounding them in an intimate circle.

 

“This isn't aiding your case, you know.” He stood unresisting with her in the cramped confines of the closet, hands up at her wandpoint. He certainly wasn't doing anything to negate her “innocuous and civil” assessment of him except being who he was.

 

“I just didn't want you yelling it all over the place that we were--that we had--that…anyway, just keep your mouth shut.”

 

“What do you think happened?” he said, one side of his mouth stretched up further than the other.

 

“We had a one night stand, courtesy of some alcohol,” she said curtly.

 

His smile grew. “That's exactly what happened. I wondered if you would admit to it.”

 

Hermione shook back her hair. “Why wouldn't I? It's an enlightened world. Women can have just as much fun as men.”

 

“Glad to hear it,” he said and then tilted his hips up and rocked his pelvis against her.

 

She had him backed up against one wall of the broom closet and he hadn't even raised his wand against her. Turns out, he didn't have to. There were other things he could do to taunt her. He had been a good lay. A  _ really  _ good lay. People could say all they wanted about love and respect and mutual understanding, but when it came to sex, none of that mattered. Sometimes, all it took was some raw chemistry and some damn good detergent. Momentarily, she closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of him and savored the nudge of him against her.

 

“Well?” he breathed. 

 

Hermione growled in frustration and cast an Imperturbable and Undetectable charm on the door. There was a low chuckle as he recognized the incantation.

 

“Naughty, naughty,” he said, as he took his hands out of his pockets and framed her face with them.

 

“Shut up,” she ordered against his mouth, and her hands dropped down to his trousers. He groaned as her fingers brushed against him to push his pants down. She felt that groan tingle all the way down her spine.

 

“Don't stop,” he said, and deepened their kissing. She felt him swallow, and his hand trail from her neck down to the opening at her shirt, and then teasing fingers reached in to caress her breast.

 

She was lost in a lust-infused mist. It was a mystery to her, the way this miserable man was able to awaken feelings that ought to be dormant to anyone but someone she genuinely cared for and loved. The problem with her, though, was that with anyone she loved and cared for, she invariably put their needs and wants above her own until resentment grew and festered. With this man, however, she didn't care about his feelings in the slightest, except for how they could potentially lead him into revealing how they were involved, which would be humiliating in the extreme. She didn't want anyone to know they were connected, especially considering that it was mostly in the anatomical sense.

 

Speaking of which, she pulled his head away from his dedicated attention to her chest and ordered, “Don't come inside me.”

 

His light eyes, heavy-lidded with the same desire that drove her, cleared as he paused momentarily. He gave one short nod and without breaking eye contact, he lifted his right hand to his mouth and licked that hand from palm to fingertip before returning that hand to what it had been doing, which was raising her to ecstatic heights.

 

Damn him anyway.


	3. Stage 3

Humans were invariably addicted to all sorts of things, notwithstanding studies that focused on the chemical properties of certain substances that induced addictions.

 

Hermione called bollocks on such studies because they always seemed to be prompted by some trend or some polarizing concern from one organization or another. The truth of the matter was that anything and everything could be addictive to humans, such as cell phones or video games. They could even be things that the majority of the population saw as healthy and positive, which for her, at the age of nine, was her love of reading. It was a runaway addiction that coincided with her discovery and subsequent addiction of magic. 

 

Addiction was alive and persistent, and Hermione knew herself well enough that she recognized the signs of it. It could be any sort of activity that, for whatever reason, sent lightning bolts coursing through the networks within one's brain. 

 

For the longest time, she had been similarly addicted to Ronald Weasley, wanting and desiring his approval and love for a whole host of reasons, ranging from envy of his easygoing, carefree manner to a desire to mother him. Sex with him was quick and disastrous, despite her love for him and his fondness for her. He was self-conscious and smothered and naturally passive and traditional. He didn't think outside the box and they knew each other too well to want to be the one who suggested, “Do you want to…?” She would have thought growing up with a host of older brothers would educate Ron in such private matters so that she wouldn't have to, but he was the baby and furthermore, had had to share rooms with Percy until Percy moved out, since there was a limit to how much space could be carved out with an extension charm. All that lack of privacy, in addition to being the last of the brood to leave the nest meant he really didn't have any opportunity to explore his sexuality.

 

So she ended up faking to save his pride, and it set a nasty precedent in their relationship that never went away.  _ Why _ had she done something like that, when everything she read told her not to?

 

The answer was simple. It was because he was self-conscious and passive and traditional, and the things she liked about him, such as growing up in a large family, had resulted in him being even more shy and smothered. It took a woman far more brash than she was to breach those walls, and she had been too young when she first attempted. Gradually, lovemaking had became a chore, and even for someone who was habitually carefree and generally oblivious as he was, it didn't go unnoticed.

 

None of these were issues with Malfoy, however. He had grown up with plenty of privacy, being an only child in his own wing of an enormous mansion, and he didn't have a self-conscious bone in his entire body and had no qualms in walking around completely nude. He had been left on his own for extended periods of time while growing up and there were many things he learned and improvised on his own. These were not things that were important in the grand scheme of things, but somehow they made a difference in the bedroom. He was the best type of lover, the kind who was active but didn't mind when she was the aggressor and did things that had shocked the socks off Ron. He was laidback in how he allowed his partner to set the pace and never pushed for more than she was willing to do. Furthermore, and perhaps the most important, he didn't have a whole host of preconceived notions about her that set the tenor of the entire enterprise. That was to say, unlike with Ron, they didn't have  a high enough opinion of each other for anything sexual to be prohibitive to their mutual respect and future relations. Any one time could have been a one off leading to future hexes in passing, and there was something comforting in that which reflected positively in bedroom performance.

 

Of course, it wasn't as though she had a host of ex-lovers to compare and make pie charts. But comparisons were inevitable, and despite her love for Ron and disdain for Malfoy, and especially against all her better judgement, she knew with whom she would rather roll around in the sheets if emotions and future planning were completely off the table.

 

There were other things she enjoyed about Malfoy. For one, she enjoyed what a ponce he really was. It meant that he was always well-coiffed and tailored and smelled  _ delicious _ . If she were in love with him, this would wreak havoc on her self-worth, what with the usual lack of effort she put into her hairdo and clothes. But since they weren't dating and never appeared in public together, this bothered her not at all, beyond going to a little extra trouble for lingerie.

 

For another, it was lovely how neat and clean his place was, and his sheets were really top of the line. In a husband, things like elfless services or thread count might not matter, but in a lover, these were perks.

 

She enjoyed how sybaritic he was and would have his enormous tub filled with water and rose petals waiting for her, complete with iced champagne when he knew in advance she had a hard day. She  _ really  _ enjoyed how clever and deft his fingers were in giving her a back and scalp massage. 

 

In short, there were all sorts of things that led to addictions and they didn't have to be substances at all, only a combination of the right circumstances and timing, and this was it for her.


	4. Stage 4

Things continued in much the same vein until:

 

“Let's have dinner,” he suggested after an energetic bout. He looked somber and slightly withdrawn. She felt the prickling of unease.

 

Her hearing to discuss the rights of werewolves had not gone well. Her opponent, the League Against Were-folk, had brought forward several witnesses to argue for quarantine instead of a measured rehabilitation program with strict potion infusion. Infused potions, Hermione had argued, led to an overall 57% drop in infection due to an increased 38% in effectiveness and duration. Those were really positive numbers when seen in a lab, working with sane, logical people. But all her numbers had been for nought in the face of an angry, crying family whose daughter died from a venomous bite instead of being turned. She was a rare case, constituting some 3% of werewolf attacks. She had been sickly to begin with.

 

In conclusion, Hermione was raring to go when she apparated to Malfoy’s flat. She had ranted while she took off her jacket and kicked off her heels. She raged while she unbuttoned her blouse and tossed her skirt over her shoulder. She ignored his raised eyebrows because, yes, she had worn sexy stilettos in deadly combination with sheer black stockings in anticipation of their visit, because nobody could see under her robes at work. But now she was angry and didn't care to have drawn-out, teasing sex. 

 

Instead, she pounced on him, backing him up against a wall not unlike the second time they ever had a go with one another. This time, though, she systematically undressed him while talking about narrow-minded wizards who were only concerned with preserving their elitism. 

 

The irony of that statement was not lost on her and she batted away his hands angrily when he attempted to touch her. “Don't touch me, you elitist prat,” she snapped and kissed him just as angrily, both hands pulling at his hair. She ground her hips against his, intent only on her own pleasure because, hey, he was part of the elitist group that created these problems. She pushed his face away when he tried to kiss her neck and her hand found its way inside her damp knickers, because she was an enlightened woman who could handle her own pleasure herself. 

 

She came around him, with her stockinged legs wrapped around his waist, hissing her climax while he shuddered against her. His shirt was open and his trousers and boxers down around his ankles. His forehead felt sweaty against her shoulder and she shrugged him off and dropped to her feet. One of her heels had come off at some point.

 

She didn't know exactly why she was so angry, but going up against emotional, judgmental prejudice always felt a bit like how it did back when she was young and didn't understand why there were people who hated things about her enough to kill her even if she did everything correct in their world. It was one giant slap in the face. Not for the first time, this addiction felt almost like a betrayal of herself. That she should want someone so badly that she overlooked a lifetime of hurt against herself by that person was ridiculous and lowering.

 

“I'm going to take a shower,” she announced, grimacing a bit as she limped towards his bathroom. The cushioning charm had worn off sometime during her presentation, or she had been hexed by the opposing party who had wanted to trip her up, literally.

 

She emerged fifteen minutes later wrapped in one of his towels and started to look for her discarded clothing, which were now folded on a chair next to his bed.

 

He looked up when she emerged, now wearing a loose pullover, slacks, and house slippers and perched on the end of his bed flipping through a magazine. There was a red bite mark on his neck and she automatically reached for her wand to erase the evidence of her ferocity. He tried to evade her and grimaced as the mark disappeared.

 

“Let's have dinner,” he said. “Or don't you ever have to eat?”

 

She did, of course. That was a ridiculous question. Only she didn't spare much time on it these days, that was for sure. One didn't unless one had a family or had a steady date, and she had neither. She usually ate at home, with a book laid out in front of her. 

 

She avoided his eyes. “Thanks, Malfoy, but I've got to do some more research. I'm sure I can find some legislation--”

 

“I'm sure that can wait,” he said. A glance showed that his mouth was twisted with some unnamed sentiment as he regarded her. “We've been doing this for, what, three months now? Not once have we had a meal together.”

 

She raised her eyebrows. “Some would constitute champagne and strawberries as a meal,” she argued.

 

“Look, I can help you with this legislation,” he cut in.

 

“You can?”

 

“I knew Fenrir Greyback--”

 

“How could I forget that?” she said, something rising within her. “Of course you knew that evil, twisted man. For some self-serving reason, he wasn't excepted from your band of merry Purebloods.”

 

“What I meant was, he was responsible for the infection of many children back in the day, but it was a planned siege on Muggleborns and those who were seen as blood traitors. He never would have dared with Purebloods--”

 

“Why am I not surprised?” she said, throwing her hands up in the air, ready to go off on another rant. 

 

Either he didn't see or he was intent on getting out this information to her. “Greyback hailed from the original line, one of a few able to retain his sense even in a transformed state. If this came out, surely it would go some way in reframing the issue. There was a memory of a conversation in a vial somewhere. I think it's still at the Manor. As he's usually quoted as the prime candidate for quarantine, with him out of the picture, perhaps they would be more open to reworking the program.”

 

Hermione stared at him for a moment. “With this information, I could get a warrant for the memory. You know that, right?”

 

“You won't have to. I'll see if I can find it for you.”

 

“Why?” she demanded. “Wouldn't that ruin your reputation with... your people?”

 

“Why do you persist in claiming there's a your and my people?” he asked, his brows drawn down over the bridge of his nose.

 

“Why?” she returned, incredulous. “Oh, because for years, you maintained that there was this invisible but oh so clearly defined line, and never the twain shall meet. And now here we are, doing the dirty on the down-low.”

 

His frown deepened. He didn't understand her words, but he got the gist all right. “And whose idea was that?”

 

“Mine,” she said. “Because now  _ I'm  _ the one who doesn't want to be seen in public with you.” There was some satisfaction in that.

 

His mouth pulled down at the edges. “Nothing's ever going to be good enough, is it? Nothing will ever convince you I'm not the same person.”

 

“Why does that even matter for what we're doing here? We don't like each other; we never have. The only difference is that we're damn good at fucking each other.” She wondered if he would dispute her. Did they have something else going on here? Something else worth preserving? Logically, she didn't think so, but...

 

“What if it's no longer good enough?”

 

Hermione was stung. “Fine. Then we're through,” she snapped. _Not good enough._ _She_ wasn't good enough. The words reverberated in her head like an echo. For all his pretty words on how he had changed, he was still the same bigoted git. More fool her. She gritted her teeth and with her back to him, she dropped the towel and dressed in her clothes again. She just about managed to do it with a poor show of nonchalance, as though it didn't matter to her that she was presenting a nude back to him.

 

“Was this how you ended things with Weasley?” he asked suddenly. “Did you treat him as nothing more than a convenient lay?”

 

“Don't talk about Ron,” she said. “And don't pretend as though you ever had a kind word for him.”

 

“Then let's talk about us,” he said. He was standing right where she had turned her back on him, arms braced across his chest, eyes blazing at her.

 

“There's nothing to talk about,” she said shortly, stuffing her stockings and undergarments into her work bag before realizing they didn't fit into this one and, with a huff, miniaturising them with an impatient flick of her wand.

 

“What  _ can _ we talk about then?” he demanded, walking up to her and pulling on her arm as she lifted it to apparate. If her apartment complex didn't have a public apparation point issue, she would have been gone already. Bully for his more upscale flat.

 

“Why do you still hate me so much?” he asked in a softer voice. “I'm not the one still hung up on the war, even though I lost the most out of everyone out there. I lost the right to live in the Manor for the next ten years. I lost everything that was in my father's vault that would have gone to me. I lost my father, even though you would probably scoff and say, good riddance. I lost a slew of extended family members who were family, for all that they were crazy. But most importantly, I lost any right to mourn the people who were close to me and any respect from either side. But I'm not bemoaning my fate. I'm not cursing you or Potter for any of this, for putting a stop to that madman.”

 

“I lost my parents too,” she snapped. “I lost them trying to save them from  _ your _ people.”

 

“You never told me that,” he said. “Which is why I thought we could  _ talk _ .”

 

Hermione turned her face away. “That would be pointless. Now that the tables are turned, how does it feel to be on the other side of that fence? For years, you taunted me by saying I wasn't good enough.”

 

His eyes were blazing until they looked almost silver. “You know the reason for that, don't you?”

 

“Because you were a snob,” she said, trying to shake her arm loose of his grip.

 

“That's not why,” he said, and then released her arm. “But you'll never believe me. And this has been a huge mistake,” he added in a lower voice, as though half to himself.

 

She really wanted to yell at him then. Whose bright idea had it been anyway, to invite her over for a shag? She didn't though. She wanted to let fly with a hex to strip him bald, but again she restrained herself. This time when she apparated away, there was only the image of him with just the top of his blond head to her as she left.


	5. Stage 5

All good things had to come to an end. 

 

Hermione was logical enough that she could recall the better aspects of that doomed affair, despite its less than pleasant ending. The sex had been phenomenal. Damn him. It was definitely better when it wasn't bogged down by all the awkwardness of first dates and future expectations. She had never realized how great sex worked better than a massage for relaxing her after a tense day at work. Of course, Malfoy had sometimes followed up a nice hard shag with a massage before even more slow shagging…

 

All right then, those memories were definitely off limits now. Hermione almost wanted to obliviate herself, but denial was for losers and wimps and she wasn't either one of those. What she was was a strong woman who took the bull by the horns. 

 

So she spent the weekend getting a complete spa treatment in Muggle London and a great new haircut, one that was short and fell above her shoulders. A side part meant that her curls now were showcased to advantage rather than, well, not at all. It was so flattering, she wondered why she had never done it before. Probably because she had only dated Ron before, and they tried desperately to tread rather gently on each other's ego, including items that could potentially be read as a criticism of the other's physical attractiveness. Those were the things that made them both go off the rails, and after a lifetime together, they knew the words to avoid. Actions, however, were more important in a relationship, and they never got the hang of that.

 

On Monday, she wore her stilettos again, with a fresh cushioning charm, and a deep red Muggle wrap dress under her robes. A few girls around the office had always dressed in revealing Muggle clothing and gotten compliments, but Hermione had never attempted such blatant flaunting of her heritage. Now, however, she was actively fishing.

 

She got her chance when she found the transfer from Australia walking past her office.

 

“Walden, is it?” she said, tucking part of her hair behind her ear.

 

Walden Hamilton, over six feet in height of tanned Australian, flashed her a dimpled grin as he shifted a file folder from one hand to the other so he could shake hers. “And you're Hermione Granger. I've heard of you.”

 

Hermione couldn't help a small flash of girlish glee. Not for one moment had she thought she had a chance, especially with most of the girls in the office constantly talking about him. The fact that he already knew of her, however, was a sweet bonus.

 

“Well, don't hold it against me,” she said, smiling. Then, out of words as small talk really wasn't her thing, she backed into her office and tripped over something that wasn't supposed to be there.

 

It was a foot, connected to a very long leg, and the next thing she knew, she was sprawled across the lap of Draco Malfoy, who was sitting in one of the chairs in front of her desk.

 

Even without his helping hands, Hermione launched herself upright in the blink of an eye.

 

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, brushing off the back of her skirt and wherever else that had touched him. His eyes were moving over her dress and heels as she had shed her work robes earlier to showcase her transformation. Now she wished she was wearing them.

 

“Waiting for you to finish flirting,” he replied just as promptly, and his eyes settled on her face, darting occasionally to her hair.

 

“I'm at work, Malfoy. If you have anything further to discuss, please send me an owl.” Hermione moved around her desk and sat down, wishing he would blink or look away from her.

 

“This is about work,” he said abruptly. “The pensieve memory. I assume you still want it?”

 

Hermione looked up suspiciously. “Yes, did you bring it?”

 

“No,” he said.

 

She compressed her lips. If this was an attempt to blackmail her, she wasn't having it.

 

Malfoy heaved a sigh at her suspicious expression. “I need someone to go over the things with me. If you want it, you'll have to come with me to look through the vaults. It's a big place and I also have a job. If you're afraid to go, then send someone else.”

 

“I don't have anything to fear,” she said immediately. “I will discuss this with my superior and get back to you.”

 

“Fine,” he said just as shortly as he stood. He looked as though he were about to say something else, his eyes flickering again to her hair. 

 

Hermione lifted her chin, silently daring him to make one comment. Just one. She would rip him a new one. 

 

He said nothing and let himself out of her office.

 

She let out a deep breath. Somehow she hadn't thought she would see him again so soon.

 

So she would be forced into more interactions with Malfoy, after all.

 

Hermione took what Malfoy had told her to her supervisor, although she couched it as though he had briefed her in her office.

 

“And he came forward with this on his own?” Cranford Mayberry wanted to know.

 

“More or less.”

 

“Good man, that Malfoy. He's turned over a completely new leaf. He doesn't know that we're trying to repeal the legislation against werewolves, though, so let's just keep it that way for now.”

 

Hermione didn't say anything, since anything she promised would be a lie.

 

“But we need to get that memory, and any other information that might be with it. There might be more evidence that could do away with this interspecies prejudice we've dealt with for generations. It's just the right time too, with such strong anti-Pureblood sentiment going on right now. Do you think he’ll let you go with him to look for the evidence?”

 

“Couldn't we get a warrant?” she suggested. “He doesn't even live there anymore.”

 

“No, a warrant is no good,” Cranford scowled. “It'll have to be processed through the Wizengamot and then all our work will be out in the open. I'd like to keep any new evidence under wraps and present then at the Grand Hearing, if possible. Unless you think he's not going to cooperate?”

 

“He might,” Hermione said reluctantly.

 

“Good man. You know, technically it makes no sense for him to not be able to reside there, but he never even made a fuss about it. If not for the Ministry's paranoia about remnants of er, Voldemort’s dark magic, he wouldn't be in this boat. Still, it's good of him to be so cooperative.”

 

“I'll set it up then,” she said, resigned to seeing more of Malfoy. “Er, unless you want to assign someone else to deal with him? We don't have the friendliest of histories.”

 

Her hopes were dashed when her supervisor shook his head. “True, but that was a long time ago. Clearly, it doesn't affect your relationship now, otherwise he would have approached someone else from this office. It's clear he knows you the best. No, you'll have to do it. You might be the only person he trusts to go digging for the memory and whatever else you can find.”

 

That was it then. 


	6. Stage 6

Hermione sent off an owl, asking if he could meet at seven that evening.

 

“Negative. I’m out of town on business,” was the reply.

 

She sighed and sent off another note asking about the following evening.

 

“My schedule is pretty tied up this week. I suggest you meet me at six-thirty Wednesday at  _ Cafe l’Ancienne Comedie.  _ If not, then you'll have to wait until next week.”

 

Put like that, how could she do anything but agree? His careless replies clearly indicated their affair was dead in the water and a thing of the past. Also, he really wanted to be calling the shots from now on. So much for helping her with the legislation.

 

_ Cafe l’Ancienne Comedie _ was one of the restaurants in the newer buildings that were built after the War, when too much dark magic had gone into the destruction of the older buildings for anyone to want to rent shop there. 

 

Hermione had never been, because it was very much a restaurant that needed company, and it was pretentious enough that it was only open in the evenings.

 

Still she went there Wednesday night, dressed purposefully down. There was no sign of her stilettos and she wore slacks with her blouse. It was almost like a slap in his face, because traditional wizard wardrobe for women was circa early 1900s attire, definitely nothing so gender neutral as trousers for women. She also wore it to make herself feel more masculine, to tamp down any addictive feelings she felt towards him. She had never worn pants around him, so that would definitely be as off-putting a statement as she could issue. She still did her hair and makeup though, because vanity required she look as good as possible for an ex. (Did he really count as an ex though?)

 

Malfoy was already there and stood up when the waiter showed her to his table. He didn't make a single comment about her new silhouette (short hair plus pants, how could she make herself clearer?) but his eyes raked her figure briefly before meeting hers. She could have sworn there was a glimmer of humor in his eyes that hadn't been there a moment ago.

 

They sat and picked up their menu in unison. Hermione had on her polite face, while her brain raked over how they would split the bill so that she could use her expense account for her half.

 

Their eyes met over the top of the menu and he laid his down.

 

“Before we begin,” he said in a neutral tone of voice. “I want to formally apologize for any behavior in the past that would have indicated blood prejudice. For the record, I no longer hold such beliefs.”

 

“Noted,” she responded, just as formally.

 

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he said.

 

“Calling me Mudblood and wishing for my death?” she asked dryly.

 

“Sometimes we say things we don't mean just for its effect,” he corrected himself smoothly.

 

“Fine. Just for the record, I stand behind my calling you a prat all those times.”

 

He nodded, but his lips twitched. “Clearly, some of us are more open-minded and are not averse to changing our opinions if circumstances change.”

 

“We'll see,” she said. “Now, about the memory.”

 

“Right. Down to business. As you know, I no longer live at the Manor. There is a family vault, and the Dark Lord added an extension and created his own personal sealed off chamber. That and its contents were emptied out by the Aurors after the war. Our magical artifacts, jewels, and personal files were kept in separate locations. The magical artifact vault was mostly ransacked, so I doubt it would be there. However, we'll save that as a last resort. Personal files are kept in the library, which has been mostly untouched, so we should start there.”

 

Hermione couldn't help her indrawn breath when he mentioned the library. The Malfoy library was a noted book collection. If they had been dating, that would have been a hell of a time to spend an entire day. But they hadn't, so they generally made the most out of broom closets and his flat. Small, cramped, and sordid assignations. 

 

“I do have to warn you, however, that it is an enormous place, and by wizarding right, I have the right to accompany any Ministry officer searching for items, which would be you,” he said. “I don't want any rare books to go missing.”

 

“Rest assured, I will issue a receipt for anything the Ministry takes away from the Manor. As you pointed out, we are no longer at war.”

 

He nodded briefly. “To continue, I'm currently very tied up with business this week, so I shall be hard to track down. I can, however, make a point to be around next week after work hours.”

 

“That would be very, er, good of you,” Hermione said, trying to match his polite and formal speech, but failing to find a synonym for the very plebeian word “good.”

 

“I should warn you, though, that I do like to work on a full stomach. Are you ready to order, or do you need more time?” he asked.

 

“Actually, I think we're all--”

 

He raised his eyebrows. “Not eating, then? Expense account only covers one portion, does it? I do expect to be fed in return for cooperating with the Ministry, mind.” He was smirking now, and Hermione slapped her menu closed in reaction.

 

“Fine. Let's order,” she said. So much for deciding that business was over and leaving early.

 

“What do you have against divination anyway?” he asked after they had both ordered.

 

“Where should I start?” she said, rolling her eyes. “The concept that our fate is predestined isn't one I support. It's the same concept behind blood prejudice.”

 

“it's not quite the same. One's just narrow-minded prejudice.” 

 

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Very clever, Malfoy. Insinuating  _ I'm _ the prejudiced one.”

 

“What about the prophecy that brought down the Dark Lord?”

 

“‘Neither can live while the other survives’?” she scoffed. “Harry's alive, isn't he?” 

 

“As it turns out, I have something of a hidden talent when it comes to palm reading,” he said. “Shall we see if it's complete bollocks?”

 

“Go for it,” she challenged, and held out her hand.

 

He kept his eyes on hers as he pulled her hand across the table towards him. Hermione found that her breath had caught in her throat. They were both sitting forward in their seats because of their hand-holding, like some sort of weird two-person séance. Now, as a result of the forced proximity, she could smell him again, tendrils of fresh pine-scented soapiness reaching across the table to tantalize her. If she closed her eyes, it was almost like they had never said harsh words to one another and put a stop to all that delicious shagging.

 

When Hermione opened her eyes, she found him gazing steadily back at her. She tried to pull her hand away, but he refused to let go.

 

“All right there?” he asked, but now he was staring down at her palm in concentration, a strand of white blond hair falling across his face.

 

“Just get it over with,” she muttered in response.

 

“Double wisdom lines. That's rare to see. It's an indication of extremely strong mental capacity. Usually successful at business but likely to have problems compromising in marriage. Very straight. Shows a practical and analytical ability, a bent for mathematics and hard sciences. Not great at matters of the heart.”

 

She rolled her eyes. “You could be saying this because you know all this about me. None of this is surprising or new information.”

 

“A long life line. It curves down all the way around your wrist. Upward branch at the start of the line. You're diligent, optimistic, and have a strong thirst for knowledge. Also an indication of prestige or fame early in life.”

 

“You're  _ really _ not trying to convince me, are you? All wizards have a longer lifespan than most Muggles.”

 

“The marriage line,” he continued. 

 

“Malfoy,” she cut in, now really laughing. “You know that's rot, right? Most people don't even get married these days.”

 

He shrugged. “You have two marriage lines, but so do most people. It's not indicative of the number of marriages you have.”

 

“Let's move on,” she said, but she couldn't help but smile at this complete nonsense.

 

“Heart line,” he said, tracing a light finger across her palm. Her hand twitched and closed over his finger instinctively. He used his other hand to pull open her fingers again. “Deep, upwards curving, ends between the mounds of Jupiter and Saturn.” He touched the base of her forefinger and third finger in turn, and she could feel the touch all the way down to her navel. “The ideal love line. It indicates you find your true love.”

 

She pulled her hand away and looked anywhere but at him. “I'm not with Ron anymore.”

 

“It might not be him then.”

 

“It's an imprecise science,” she argued.

 

“I agree. Life is what you make of it.”

 

She raised her eyebrows at his words.

 

“If I believed in predestination, I would be a Deatheater today. Instead I'm just a bloke with a really terrible mark on his arm.” He smiled wryly and she couldn't help a reluctant smile in response.

 

Their food had arrived. Hermione found that eating with Malfoy wasn't as heinous as she had imagined, although when he brushed hair out of his eyes, it reminded her of other activities where he had done that.

 

“You need a haircut,” she said suddenly.

 

“Like you did?”

 

“Let's have it then,” she huffed. Here it came, a list of all her physical defects. This was why she never wanted to talk to him or share a meal with him. He was good for one thing only, and that usually meant his mouth was occupied with some activity far more useful than talking. Otherwise he would be spouting insult after insult, how her teeth were too big, how her hair was too bushy. The list went on. She found that she was completely tensed up.

 

“What do you mean?” he said, looking puzzled.

 

“Not a day went by back in school when you didn't treat me to a running commentary of my looks. So what do you want to say about my haircut today? That I look like Ronald McDonald?”

 

“Who?” he asked, looking even more confused. “Wait, did you think I was going to criticize your haircut?”

 

Hermione made a noncommittal noise.

 

“I like your haircut. I just liked it better before. It was...wild.”

 

“Right,” she said in disbelief.

 

Malfoy seemed a bit pained. “This is why I thought we should talk. You're completely hung up on things in the past that aren't relevant anymore.”

 

“Malfoy, you hated my guts. You criticized everything about my appearance and things about my character, not to mention my blood status. The only question I have for you is why you even wanted to invite me back to your place in the first place. Surely you can't be that hard up for company.”

 

“I'm not,” he said, jaw clenched. “I wanted  _ you _ .”

 

“Slumming?” she asked. “That's the only other explanation I can come up with.”

 

“Bloody hell, woman,” he gritted out. “Why did you even kiss me back that day if you hate me so much?”

 

“You smell good,” she said without thinking.

 

He was startled into laughter. “I... smell good? Granger, you smell bloody amazing. I want you all the time. I--” Under her sardonic gaze, he pressed down on his lips and cut himself off. He took a sip of his wine and when he finished, he had regained his composure, to her disappointment. She wanted to know what else he was going to say that was so shocking he had to stop himself from saying it. After all,  _ wanting _ her for a shag was pretty obvious. That was how this started, after all.

 

Still, a girl had her pride, even if it was demolished by being rejected by a git who was pretty horrid to her for all of her teenage years. A git she slept with, willingly. So what did that make her? The poster child for the world's lowest self-esteem? She grimaced and took a hearty gulp of her own wine. It seemed like he wasn't wedding about her being hung up on the past. Honestly though, things like that in adolescence tended to stay with one.

 

“Let's not drag this out then. Any chance we can get started looking over the Manor tonight?” she asked in a falsely chipper tone.

 

His head snapped up. “You--didn't you hear what I just said?”

 

“Yes, I heard. It's not a surprise to me.”

 

“Then--” His brow furrowed and he looked puzzled. “It doesn't make a difference?”

 

She laughed a little and it sounded harsh even to her own ears. “Malfoy, you  _ say  _ you're changed, but I see very little evidence of it. For example, have I seen you dating a Muggleborn witch since Hogwarts?”

 

He wiped his mouth with sharp, angry movements and leaned forward. “In case it had escaped your notice, Granger, I was  _ shagging _ you on a regular basis. Why would I even touch you if I still held on to old prejudices?”

 

“In the Muggle world, loathe as I am to admit this, as it might fuel more prejudice from people like you, there are people who discriminate based on the color of one's skin color. But there are degrees of prejudice, you see. Someone could tolerate certain people in society and not want to kill them, but that doesn't mean they think such people deserve the same rights. They could be, say, good enough for certain menial jobs, or good enough to shag on occasion, but to date one in public without honorable intentions would be completely out of the question.”

 

She could tell her words had angered him. His knuckles were white and he was moving his hands very slowly and carefully. He was staring straight at her and she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he didn't need blood prejudice to hate her at the moment.

 

“Let's go,” he said coldly, and waved the waiter over.

 

Hermione took the check without asking him, and he said nothing as she presented her Ministry work pass to settle the meal on her account.


	7. Stage 7

Without speaking, it seemed that they had agreed to begin searching that night.

 

She could have apparated to the Manor grounds by herself, as she had arranged for a ward-pass, but before she could do so once outside the restaurant, he had taken her upper arm with hard fingers and apparated the both of them.

 

She stumbled as they land but was held in place by his unrelenting grip, which had not lessened. There was a moment's paranoia in which Hermione wondered if she had pushed him over the edge and that now he was bringing her here to kill her.

 

In the next moment, she scoffed at her own fears. The war was over and Draco Malfoy hardly had it in him to become the next dark wizard. If he couldn't bring himself to kill anyone at the height of a war in which he would have everything to gain by it, he certainly wasn't going to do it now and risk everything he had worked to regain since then. He was a narrow-minded opportunist, not a killer.

 

Apparating with Malfoy had the benefit of being able to apparate into the Manor itself, whereas, even with a ward-pass, a Ministry worker still needed a Malfoy to formally let them in. They were in the Manor, in the front hall. It looked very different from how she remembered it, but then she had been dragged in with the certainty they--or she, probably, since she wasn't letting Harry die on her watch--were going to die.

 

She felt his eyes on her and strove for nonchalance.

 

“C’mon,” he said gruffly, much of the anger gone from his voice. “The library is this way.”

 

They walked in silence down the hall. He stopped in front of a set of double doors and opened them without fanfare. With a gesture of his wand, Malfoy brought the library into startling brightness. 

 

It was everything a library should be and more. Shelf upon shelf of books, and what weren't windows were walls that extended to a second floor, completely packed with colorful binding. 

 

“Is this bright enough for you? The windows are spelled, so they can reflect daylight if one wishes.” His mouth twisted. “One could literally spend all of eternity in here and not know the difference.”

 

“No, it's bright enough. This is…this is fantastic. And to be in such a place after hours…It gives me shivers.” She was so awed by the place that she gave him a genuine smile that reflected all of her pleasure. “It reminds me of Hogwarts. Of being in the library at night.”

 

He didn't return her smile, but his eyes settled on her for a long moment. “I wanted to bring you here,” he said finally. “But you never seemed to want to go anywhere but my flat and occasionally a closet. And frankly, I didn't think this place had many happy memories for you.”

 

“Well, way to completely change my mind,” Hermione said eagerly, rubbing her hands together.

 

“We're here to work, remember?” he reminded her mildly.

 

“Oh, yeah,” she said, shoulders dropping a bit in disappointment. “Um, okay, where shall we start?”

 

“Personal files are on the second floor,” he said, and went to the wall, where a tapestry filled with a group of young nymphs were sleeping beside a reflective pool of water. He reached into the tapestry and rummaged in the water, which stirred as though it were real water, and then suddenly everything shifted around her.

 

Hermione blinked. It felt as though she were still on the first floor--there were the double doors, and she was looking at the wall of windows and outside were the grounds. Yet, everything else, the shelves had arranged itself, and it was unmistakably the second floor shelving.

 

“It's a very complicated sort of extension charm, whereby one can stay in the same place while things rotate on an axis around you,” he explained, and smiled reluctantly when she looked around her, vastly impressed. “It's outdated now. Gives people vertigo.”

 

“I can see that,” she said, wanting to unleash a barrage of questions at him but stopping herself in the nick of time.

 

“There are lots of locks on the library, which is why I have to be here in person. There's a reason this library isn't open to the public.” 

 

He moved to the wall, where a painting now hung next to the nymph tapestry. The painting was an oil of one of Malfoy’s ancestors, who had fallen asleep in an armchair in the library. This very library, actually. Hermione took a closer look. The blond man held a set of keys in his hands.

 

“Pardon me,” said Malfoy, and before Hermione knew what he was about, he has reached into this second interactive wall art and removed the keys from the blond man's hand and was unlocking a door that was behind the man in the painting.

 

“Let's go,” Malfoy said, and pulled Hermione after him as he pushed the painting to one side. The nymph tapestry didn't move at all, and Hermione realized that it was an illusion on the wall that wasn't really there now that they were supposed to be on the second floor. How strange.

 

They were in a different area of the library now, which initially had seemed a very tall rectangular room with hardly any crooks or crevices aside from the armchairs set up alongside the windows. Here, there were no windows and it seemed a tad eerie, especially since it was now evening and there were no sounds from the outside. 

 

If he wanted to, Hermione thought suddenly, he could--

 

“This is the room where my father stored everything Dark Lord related. During the war, only the Dark Lord came in. I think my father didn't even deal with his things afterwards. Most of the things have been hauled away, but some papers might have been misfiled and so overlooked. We'll start here. I remember being sent in here to fetch an item or two and Greyback’s dossier was definitely in here, along with all the information on any potential ally that would help kill Harry Potter.”

 

His voice was wry and Hermione looked sharply at him.

 

Malfoy shrugged and opened a trunk with his wand. There was a mishmash of items in there, including a shoe on the very top.

 

“House elves aren't allowed in here, so it's quite a mess.”

 

Hermione tried  _ accioing  _ anything Greyback related and other sorting spells she knew before going up and starting to dump out the contents of the first trunk when nothing she used worked. 

 

After a few minutes, she looked up to find Malfoy just standing around, looking at the other trunks and shelves in the room.

 

“What's the matter?” she asked. “Why aren't you helping me? You would know where everything is, right? The faster we do this, the faster I can be out of your home and your private vaults.”

 

He shrugged. “It's not really my home anymore and looking is going to take more than one evening.”

 

Hermione deflated. “Yeah, the mandate. Well, in a decade or so, you'll be able to bring your Pureblooded children in here to live.”

 

He turned to look at her. “It really hasn't been my home since he took it over. There was hardly a room in here that he didn't defile with dark magic. I'm not saying that Malfoys didn't do their share of dark magic in the past, but most were confined to the laboratory and not used so indiscriminately and viciously and certainly not to kill.”

 

“You came back here after Harry killed him, right?” she said in a small voice.

 

He gave a mirthless laugh. “Only for a few nerve-racking months until it was put on lockdown by the Ministry. Hardly time for a magic cleanse or redecorating.” He walked through the room with his hands behind his back in clear indication that he wasn't going to help. “Why do you keep on with the blood business? If anyone here is still obsessed with blood, it's not me; it's you.”

 

“After the war, you didn't socialize with many Muggleborns, despite your family's new avowed beliefs.”

 

“Do you think any Muggleborn would have wanted to come near me?” he asked, turning to face her. “What with my outed Deatheater status, even after the war?”

 

“I’m sure if you had--”

 

“Like you did, I suppose,” he said skeptically.

 

“Yes, I would have, if you had made an effort!” Hermione protested. 

 

“I did,” he said in a low voice. “Every single Memorial Day celebration, to be exact. I could never get you to spare more than one sentence on me.”

 

They stared at each other, Hermione with some consternation. Memories flitted through her mind like butterflies.

 

Malfoy coming up to her after the war. “Congratulations, Granger. I guess the right side won after all.” There was such a heavy note of irony in his voice she didn't know quite how to take that, and she didn't. Only shrugged and smiled politely before moving off.

 

“Congratulations on your promotion,” he said the following year on the Memorial Day celebration. The sarcasm was less obvious that year, or so she thought. Still, remembering years of taunting from this man, she hadn't stayed to chat.

 

“Good book,” he said the next year. That was the year she co-authored Harry's biopic with the biographer Andrea Forsier, mostly in an effort to stem the false information spread by gossip. 

 

That year, she was riding on a high and clinked her wineglass against his. “Cheers, Malfoy.”

 

“You could take up writing as a profession,” he said. “I much preferred the chapters you wrote to Fulton’s.”

 

“You could tell which ones I wrote?” she repeated.

 

“Sure. I had to read enough of your papers in detention,” he said. “You were something of a teacher's pet. You were the shining example for the rest of us.”

 

The note of irony was back. As had been her wont back in school, whenever it seemed as though he were about to launch into an attack on her, she left his proximity posthaste.

 

There had followed another year when she had thought she felt his eyes following her around the room during the annual celebration, but that year he didn't approach her except to make closed-mouth social greetings in passing. After that, he never approached her alone. Now she wondered if the note of irony in his voice was just habitual and not a precursor to veiled barbs.

 

The year after, his business with Theodore Nott had been set up. “Drinks at the Leaky Cauldron on us,” Theodore had said to a group of people towards the end of the celebration. To her, he asked, “You're coming, right?”

 

“No, I don't think so, but thank you,” she replied. Drinks with her ex-tormentors. What would be next?

 

“You might enjoy it,” he insisted, but half-heartedly, she thought, since he turned around to scan the room for someone. Then, before she could beat a hasty retreat, he put a restraining hand on her arm so she had to stay put. “Really. Please come.”

 

It was possible that a public appearance by her with his new business would do them a world of good. “Maybe Harry could pop in,” she suggested, looking around for him. Harry was so much better at this public appearance thing than she was, probably because he had been dealing with it ever since he was young.

 

“Harry?” Theo looked confused. “Oh, Potter. Of course he's welcome too, but  _ you _ should come.”

 

“Maybe next year,” she said, and turned around to be brought up short by Draco Malfoy's sudden appearance. 

 

“Granger,” he said, his eyes lighting on her before going to Theo. 

 

“Malfoy, er, congratulations on the business,” she had said, craning her neck to look up at him, wishing he would back up or that she had room to do so.

 

“Thank you,” he said. Hesitating for a moment, he then continued, “It would be great if you could come join us after this has broken up.” He made a vague gesture to encompass the stragglers of the annual celebration.

 

“Thank you,” she said awkwardly. “But it's quite late and I, erm, have a thing very early in the morning.” Dammit, she was caught so off guard that she wasn't even able to lie convincingly.

 

From his expression, he definitely caught on. “Right,” he said sardonically. “I won't keep you then.”

 

Hermione had smiled politely and moved off, annoyed she couldn't continue mingling anymore and had to actually leave to give credence to her lie.

 

In fact, she had pretty much steered away from him in recent years, much in the way he described how Muggleborns gave him a wide berth. Now she felt slightly ashamed in misunderstanding his overtures. 

 

“I... guess I wasn't sure if you were going to make fun of me again. Like the way you did in school. You were pretty awful.”

 

“How else was I going to get your attention?” he asked, looking at her with raised eyebrows.

 

“What?”

 

“Granger. You're such an idiot,” he said, shaking his head. “Couldn't you tell I had a massive crush on you in school?”

 

“Massive--no! What? You were  _ horrid _ . You never passed up a chance to make fun of me. This is--you know what? I don't believe you at all, Malfoy. You're sending me up.”

 

“You were the number one student in our year. Everyone noticed you, but you only ever had eyes for Potter and his sidekick. You never joined in on any festivities unless you were glued to Potter's side, and the rest of the time you were in the library where, Merlin forbid, no one could speak to another person even at a whisper. Oh, and to make yourself completely unattainable, as if you weren't already because of my parents’ stance on blood purity, you also dated Viktor Krum and went with him to the ball. Is any of this sounding familiar?” He paused and raised an eyebrow at her. “You only partly paid attention to Weasley when he taunted you, and still, even as prefects, you couldn't be bothered to detach yourself from his side unless I did something to incense you. So, I just always thought I had to do him one better since there was no besting Potter.”

 

She stared him, open-mouthed. “This is…since when?”

 

He gave a short, humorless laugh, but he understood her less than specific question. “Oh, about year two at some point. Years three to five. Off and on, here and there. I was a bit preoccupied towards the end though, so less then.”

 

“You're kidding me.”

 

“I'm not, Granger. Believe me.”

 

Their eyes clashed, hers wary, his challenging. 

 

He shrugged. “And again when we saw each other on Memorial Day a year later. Every Memorial Day thereafter, actually.”

 

She narrowed her eyes. “We never talked.”

 

“Not for the lack of effort on my part, no.”

 

She cleared her throat. “All right, Malfoy. I'm flattered you're trying so hard to apologize, and I have to admit you're a pretty good shag, although admittedly, I don't have much to compare with. Still, I wouldn't mind going back to the status quo.”

 

“I don't want to go back to the status quo, Granger. Don't you get it? I want  _ more _ .”

 

She stood stock-still then, afraid to raise her eyes to meet his. There was too much information to absorb, too many thoughts flashing through her brain, too many feelings coursing through her veins. 

 

“I had tried so many times and failed to even get you to look at me that I thought only a shock tactic would work. And it did,” he said, shaking his head a bit. “Only not in the way I expected. You wouldn't even have a meal with me, but you were willing to shag me twenty ways to Sunday.”

 

He walked across the room towards her, eyes never leaving hers. “So, tell me. What's it going to take? What do I have to do to make you take me seriously?”

 

He reached across and took her hand, now gentle and caressing as he played with her fingers. “I want to hold your hand in public and not have to manufacture excuses. I want to take you out to eat and cuddle with you and not even shag if we don't want to. I want to...” he broke off and pressed his lips together as though trying to stem more words from flying out.

 

“This sounds like a proposal,” she whispered.

 

“Yeah,” he agreed, not looking up from her hand in his. “But I'll settle for dating you until you think you can take me seriously.”

 

“What about your mother?”

 

“She really doesn't have much of a say as to what I do now,” he said, smiling wryly. “Especially not since I work for my living and can live independently from my trust fund.”

 

“I thought you said you lost everything.”

 

“Just what my father had in his public vault. In England. It was more, er, symbolic than substantial, to be honest.”

 

“I really can't believe you had a crush on me,” she continued to whisper, unable to talk any louder.

 

“Yeah. And it was really horrible too. I kept getting humiliated in all sorts of ways in front of you. I…couldn't even save you from my crazy aunt. That really haunted me for ages.”

 

“I'm sorry,” she said.

 

“What? No, I'm the one who should be apologizing. I just,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I can't even talk about it still. I'm sorry I wasn't able to--”

 

“It's fine,” she said, cutting him off. It wasn't something she wanted to talk about right now either.

 

“So, is this a yes?”

 

“I think so?” Hermione said, and couldn't help a smile breaking out when he lowered his head to kiss her without releasing her hands. Somehow he had gotten ahold of both of her hands. The kiss was gentle and sweet, almost like a kiss at the altar before she opened her mouth to grant him more access.

 

She broke away as a thought stuck her. “Wait a minute, does this mean you don't even have the Greyback memory?”

 

“Er…”

 

“Malfoy?”

 

“Don't you think you could start calling me Draco?”

 

“Malfoy!”

 

“It's at my flat,” he said, tugging at her hair a little so that he could kiss her again. “It's been there since the day after I told you I could get it for you.”

 

“You're a fast worker,” Hermione said, shaking her head. “And this whole time!” She thought of going to her supervisor and the dinner to politely discuss searching the Manor. The agonizing thought of having to deal with him for an extended period of time despite her erstwhile addiction and being rejected by him. Although, that hadn't turned out to be the case, had it? She took a deep breath to inhale the fragrance of him. Yeah, addiction still going strong, or was it something else that she hadn’t wanted to put into words? Something that made her breath catch whenever she looked at him, or caused her stomach to plummet when she thought it was over for good. Whatever it was, it was slightly less mortifying now that she realized it wasn't one-sided and it wasn't just lust on his end.

 

“What? I had to have a backup plan!” he protested.

 

“Can't argue that,” she said, and dragged his head back down to hers.

 

FIN


End file.
